Solona 19 - Second Chance For Him
by Teency Hawk
Summary: After the Conclave blows up, throwing the world into chaos, our beloved leaders of Inquisition finds the Mark that can close fade rifts on one Jocelyn Trevelyan, who is just like every other noble; whiny and incompetent. Thus, our favorite Warden Solona Amell must sweep in and save the world from the evil darkspawn magister from dawn of time. Alternate Universe.
1. Prologue: Harrowing

Hello Everyone, few words before moving onto the actual prologue (sorry)

i don't know if anybody is still waiting for this story. But just in case there are people still waiting;

I apologize for stopping the story midway without any notice - lots of things happened in my life. To list a few:

I had to change jobs three times, and now I'm working three different part time jobs, and went to school full time at the same time.  
I had to move out of my old place as well - found a new place to move in.  
Lost my beta readers - (love you guys!) - they're also very busy with their lives.

Things have not really changed. I still:  
1) go to school full time  
2) work 2 different jobs  
3) have no time to eat and sleep

BUT

I have found out:  
1) I have Major Cyclical Depressive disorder  
2) writing and gaming seems to help me incredibly well

and you know what? I just _really_ darn miss writing. So,

I am going to be writing again. It will be **VERY SLOW**. Because, you know, life. And sadly, I must still eat and sleep to function like most humans. At least once every three days.

Good news:  
I have about 6 chapters in store I can post right away. I've been working on improving my writing, and I think you guys will really enjoy how I tidied up the story.

Some of you guys know, this story started off as a "quick porn with some plot" one shot. That is not how it went. Now, I have really fixed things up and focused the story more on Cullen Rutherford x Solona Amell.

I hope it was worth the wait for you guys. Thank you.

Bad news:  
 **1) I HAVE NO BETA READER.** I am searching, so if you are interested, _**PLEASE** _ let me know. I needed a beta reader 3 months ago, and I still haven't found somebody.

I am now on patre(on)(TeencyHawk). Sorry guys, but with going to school full time and working two part time jobs, I simply just DO NOT have time to be creating for free. So my work is going on patre(on)(TeencyHawk).

Of course, I WILL be posting my works on AO3 and here at fanfiction when my posts open up to public, so do not worry!

The prologue is available today, with the second chapter available for purchase on 09/11/2017 on patre(on)(TeencyHawk) and available for public on 09/18/2017.

If you have any questions please leave comments or send me a message or an ask on tumblr. Once again, sorry for everything guys. And happy reading!

* * *

Maker, today was… _exhausting_. It could have been disastrous, though. Lethal, even. But thanks to my Mage, today ended with simply being… exhausting. Considering, I'll accept it.

Dust puffs up as my gauntlets thump onto the worn blankets over my bunk. With the dulling metal encasings off my hands, I assault the buckles holding my armor and sword in place.

Just what was that Mage thinking? Andraste preserve us, I realize he's barely held the title of Senior Enchanter for a scant three nights, but leaving those apprentices untended to in the library? He was damned well asking, no _begging_ , for that fire to start. If it wasn't for my Solona freezing the entirety of the lower two levels of the tower…

Well, she _is_ my Mage, my charge… there's nothing wrong with referring of her as _mine_ , is there? Not that she really is mine… she is the First Enchanter's own apprentice after all. But among the Templars… no one has more claim over her than myself. I mean, even the Knight-Commander Greagoir consults me on the matters relating to her. She is _my_ charge, and no one else's. So… it's okay.

Right…? It isn't really unnatural for the Templar to feel responsible for his charge. That's my duty, given to me by my sacred oath. So… my Solona… well, maybe my Mage. My Mage, I can't believe she froze the entire two lower levels of the tower, without freezing any breathing creature. Even the tower rats were spared from her icy grasp.

The last of my armor clangs against the stone floor and I sink onto the straw mattress on my bunk. The stray straws poke through the flimsy fabric and itches my bottom. Scratching is just asking for more irritation, but I dig my blunt nails through the breeches anyway.

I'll bet anything they brought these bunks up from the cells down in the basement. How else could the bedding be so bad?

Anyway, that's my Mage. Well, apprentice really, but by the Maker's beard we all know she's going to be the best Mage the tower's ever seen. Considering just today, other Senior Enchanters either panicked or threw ice spells around, attempting to counter the fire. Even the Templars had little choice than try to kill that young apprentice, since we could not Cleanse the fire without destroying the Rage draining the boy's mana to fuel the inferno. But then my Mage cast a single spell.

A single spell of Blizzard that froze every stone, book, and hot wax from burning candles in the lower two levels of the tower. Giving me a chance to strike the Rage, saving that boy. Maker's breath, we were a hairbreadth away from killing that boy. She is… my Mage, she is a wonder. A gift, to us all. With her gentle smile, and her fierce magic, all her overflowing power… I see why others may fear her, but she would never, ever be the threat they imagine her to be.

Ugh… why couldn't the Enchanters invent an enchantment that would allow the armor to get organized on the armor stand by itself? Must I put it away tonight? I'm so tired after… after the disaster halted in its tracks by my Mage. Maker, I can't call myself her Templar if I can't be bothered to even clean up after myself. She will be the best, most powerful Mage Ferelden has ever seen. If I am to be her Templar, to protect her, to keep her safe… by the Maker's beard I better be the best Templar the Order has ever seen. If I couldn't even put my damned armor on the stand, how could I be worthy of her trust?

…doesn't necessarily mean I must _enjoy_ putting away my armor.

At least it's quick to organize them. I remember when I was a recruit I would get it all tangled up and it would all fall off the stand and...

I've improved much since my training. I wonder… will my Solona improve too? She is no doubt the most promising Mage Ferelden has ever seen. But… the Harrowing… what if… Maker, why can't she wake from the Fade on her own?

She wakes when I call to her. Every time I call her name, her gentle eyes blink open and she smiles up at me.

If I call to her.

If anyone else tried to wake her… sufficient to say, her flames puts the one sweeping through the library today to shame.

Solona Amell, my Mage. Who collapses onto her small apprentice bunk with exhaustion and falls asleep within seconds. My Solona, whom no one can wake without getting burned by her flames. The realm of the dreams resonates too strongly with my Mage. She can keep her wits about better than most Senior Enchanters can in the Fade. But she struggles to escape from the dreams, the tendrils of the spirits clinging to her long after waking. Fellow apprentices and mentoring Mages spend hours to properly wake her from the Fade, worry carved into their face lest she becomes Fade-struck.

 _I guess it's a small price to pay for having so much magic,_ she laughed. _I'll forever be the tower's legendary sleepyhead._

Chills shiver down my spine as I remember her words.

She knows not of the Harrowing. She would defeat the demons with ease, with certainty. But if she were to be trapped in that realm as she is, wandering through the murky land as she does each night, enraptured by its mysteries, then the Templars would execute her.

 _Let me wake you, then,_ I remember forcing out with a chuckle.

 _What, you think you'd be immune to my flames?_

 _No, but I'll wake you nonetheless. Promise you'll wake when I call you._

 _Cullen…?_

 _Promise me. Swear to me. My Mage, I am your Templar; I give you my word, I will never leave you to wander the Fade alone. Hear my voice, search for my presence, and I swear I will be by your side. Wake for me._

… _I will, my Templar. I will wake when you call me forth. Anchor me, protect me, and I will never fail to answer your voice. I swear to you, my Templar, my Cullen. I will wake for you, and only for you._

 _"*~*"_

"Rutherford!"

Maker's stinky, hairy arse, who the…

"Knight-Captain! Ow!"

Heat flares up where I've hit my head on the bed post. I somehow stand upright, stars spinning in my eyes, saluting.

 _What in Andraste's flaming tits is the Knight-Captain doing in our quarters?!_

He seems mighty displeased with me, the way he is examining me from head to foot…

"Gear up, Rutherford. Full armor, report to the Harrowing Chamber in fifteen."

He spits out before stomping out the door.

 _Fifteen?!_ He expects me to put on full armor and run up the tower in fifteen? Harrowing Chamber is on the highest floor of the entire tower! Why the hell would I even be expected at the Harrowing Chamber? They would instruct a week prior for a Harrowing duty. Fifteen? This is ridiculous. It's as if they tried to keep it secret from-

 _Maker's breath._

It's as if they tried to keep it a secret from me.

I fly toward my armor stand, clasping the pieces on as fast as my numbing limbs would allow. Warmth leaks from the tips of my fingers and I scrabble uselessly against these _damned_ tiny buckles. My helm clangs against the floor as it slips through my grasp.

They would keep it secret from me for only one reason. It's her. It's _her_ Harrowing.

I hop over the threshold, tugging my sabaton onto my foot before lacing the clasp tight. Ignoring the looks the night duty Templars are throwing me, I pelt down the curving corridor.

I must be wrong. It can't be. She's too young. She's sixteen! No Mage has ever gone through their Harrowing so early. Surely I am overreacting. No one in their right mind would force her through the Harrowing at her age!

But,

Maker preserve her, no one's ever seen a Mage with her potentials either.

Why are there so many accursed stairs in this tower?!

She's not ready. She can't do it. She still can't wake on her own. Maker, please, it can't be her turn. This is nothing but my imagination going wild. This is ridiculous. Her Harrowing? Ha! Even Jowan hasn't had his Harrowing yet. Hers isn't due for years! There is no _way_ the First Enchanter would allow it.

But if the Knight-Commander were to force the issue… even the Chantry has been keeping a closer eye on her lately. What if… Maker, if it really is her Harrowing… what am I going to do? What can I do? What am I supposed to do?

 _Should I take her and run?_

Cullen Stanton Rutherford, what the hell are you thinking?

Finally! The Harrowing Chamber!

I slam the doors open, panting. An entire troop of Knights is already present, encircling the basin at the center of the room. All eyes turn to rest on me, but none of them are hers.

Praise the Maker, she is not here.

"You're late!"

I flinch at the voice. I didn't even notice the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter standing by the basin.

"Ser!" I salute. The heavy door creaks back to close behind me.

"Get over there, Rutherford." He jerks at the spot remaining open, closest to the basin at the center of the room.

 _The executor's place._

"Now, Rutherford!" The Knight-Commander snaps and I trudge forward.

There's something wrong with me. It's as if there's a vice squeezing my heart. My lung's up in my throat, and I can't pull in a decent breath.

I reach the spot and freeze. I think I might be sick. It's a good thing my helm hides my face from others right now.

The Knight-Commander snorts before crossing his arms and glares at the slab of stone door I just walked through. It's silent now, heavy, sickly silent. Minutes trickle by, but there's no noise, no movement, just the suffocating silence punctuated by the Knight-Commander's disgusted grunts.

My longsword hangs heavy by my side… Maker, I have never been so _aware_ of my blade before. My helm fogs up on the inside, the hot moisture from my pants clinging to the icy metal. I unclench my balled-up fist, and then clench again.

Gazes of other Knights are prickling me. They all know she is my Mage. And that I am her Templar. One of them shifts, and I imagine them whispering rumors about the apprentice going through her Harrowing tonight.

"She's late," the Knight-Commander growls and glares at me, as if her tardiness is somehow my doing. In some sense I suppose it is. If they had sent me to wake her for the Harrowing, she would not have been late.

 _If they had sent me to wake her, I might have taken her and ran._

No! No, that's ridiculous. That would make her an apostate. I will guard her as her Templar. Andraste guide me, how can I protect her now? How do I keep my Mage safe? How can I keep her as my Mage, keep our bond the same? Guide me to the path I must take to-

The stone door creaks open, the squeak of rusted hinges pumping my heart faster. Footsteps echo and she steps into the chamber.

Tousled hair gathered into a messy bun, sleep still clinging to the corners of her eyes, and a matching set of crumpled apprentice robes. She doesn't even look around the room – her gaze pierces me in an instant.

She knows I am here. I must look the same as the others, but she sees me hidden behind my Templar helm.

"Good evening, everyone. I am sorry I'm late." she smiles, rubbing her eyes to wipe away the last traces of sleep. No one answers her greeting, but she continues anyway.

"I am sorry to disturb your rest," she yawns.

There is not an ounce of tension in her body as she arches like a cat to stretch. My wringing stomach threatens to heave, and I taste bile in my mouth. The sword weighs a ton on my belt.

I've seen failed Harrowings before. Struck out at abominations, fallen Mages. The ones who fell asleep and never opened their eyes again. I remember them.

Her eyes seek my own across the chamber.

My hands tremble and I grip the pommel until my fingers tingle. They're all staring at me. _Me_ , her Templar. Her eyes never waver from me as the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander explains the Harrowing to her. The buzz in my ears deafens the quiet murmurs of instruction. Why isn't anyone pointing out the loud hammering of my heart? Someone must be able to hear how loud it is beating.

Her eyes, what if she never opens those eyes again? Since the day she promised, she has never failed to open her eyes when I called to her in the Fade. But this is her Harrowing; no one will be calling her name, least of all me.

"I understand, First Enchanter."

"You are ready," the Knight-Commander points toward the center basin.

No, she is not ready! She is the youngest Mage to ever take her Harrowing. She's only sixteen. No one in their sane mine could ever think she is ready!

"Yes, Knight-Commander. Allow me a word before we begin."

The Knight-Commander scowls, but he nods anyway. In that instant, she cuts all out of her world except _me_. She closes that short distance between us.

A word, before her Harrowing begins. My head feels like it'll explode and there's something happening to my heart. The closer she comes more certain I am that it'll burst.

"My Templar,"

Solona stops in front of me, looking up to meet my eyes through the narrow slit in the helm. I want to say something, _anything_ , but I am forbidden.

She makes no move to touch me, or even pause to wait for me. She tilts her head and smiles.

"You swore."

I swore? I swore to follow the Maker's will. I swore myself to the Order. And I swore… I will be by her side always, as her Templar.

"Leave me not to wander the Fade alone," she grins. How can she smile? How can she look so carefree? She is a good Mage, an excellent one, the best! But the Fade clings to her spirit and I cannot speak her name to call her back. I trust her abilities, more than anyone to see this trial through. But the Fade…

"My Templar, I trust you."

She turns away to face the basin of lyrium.

Trust me? Trust that I will do… what? Stand there gawking? Lose my tongue and my head, and watch her walk to her potential death? Stand by, helpless to aid my Mage in any way?

"Rutherford, strike the killing blow should she fail to return," the Knight-Commander snaps. Something too tight clamps over my throat, and stars flash before my eyes. I think I am shaking now, my bones rattling under my skin. The killing blow. To kill my Mage. To stop her from ever waking up again.

She throws a glance over her shoulder and rolls her eyes at me.

 _As if he needed to say it out loud,_ she winks.

… _as if we hadn't already promised each other long time ago,_ I echo.

 _Ah, what an idiot I am!_

The world spins and I nearly stumble as tension leaks out and I deflate. I am vaguely aware that I am no longer strangling the neck of my pommel.

There's a chuckle bubbling up inside my chest. A grin spreads on my face, and the tightness in my muscles drain. She sees me relax and winks once more before facing the basin and stretching a hand over it.

How could I have been so _stupid?_ My Mage, she places an unwavering, undeserving faith in _me._

I will be by her side, keep her company and protect her from any harm, even from herself. I will not allow her to wander alone in the lonely realm of the Fade no matter what shall happen. And should the worst come to pass, I will be her salvation.

She entrusts me with her death, to strike the killing blow. She trusts me to be her Templar and soars free through her dreams, knowing I will do what I must should she fall to possession.

 _And I swear she will die by no one's hands but my own._

I am such a _fool_. How could I possibly have forgotten our truth?

All the promises, all the oaths of _us_ , reinforced with our trust. Her death has _always_ been in my hands, and mine alone.

She has placed her life in my hands, and I have placed my heart in hers. _This_ is us _._

Her smile grows on her face, brilliant and calming, and confident. Confident in her abilities, and confident in mine.

And I am confident, more than ever, that she will return. She will keep my heart safe just as I will keep her safe.

"Well then, everyone. I'll be back shortly!" She laughs and waves her hand in goodbye as it begins to glow lyrium blue.

The sudden flash of light blinds me and when I blink the tears out of my eyes she is slumped on the floor, eyes closed, breaths even, and everyone in the room turns to look at me.

"Well?" The Knight-Commander growls.

I take a step, then two, approaching my Mage. Others expect me to draw my blade and stand over her prone figure with the edge bared against her neck, ready to behead her.

I kneel by her side and cradle her to my armor. This is not in accord to standard protocols.

But it doesn't matter, because I'm her Templar. I draw my dagger against her pale throat.

My Mage flicks a finger as if she's casting. Her magic sings in my blood, flows in my veins. I lean low over her head, holding her safe in my arms. My dagger press against her carotid, but not enough to break her translucent skin. She flicks her finger again and I imagine her tilting her head to listen for my voice, for her path back home.

"Solona," I breathe.

" _Wake up,"_


	2. The Breach

update: The day after I posted the prologue, my mother had brain hemorrhage and was admitted to hospital and has undergone surgery. I've been in hospital with her since Tuesday. I think I will be finally leaving the hospital to go to work this evening. While I'll continue to post the work I've already finished writing, edited, and saved as draft on "AO3" and Patr(eon), I don't know when I will go back to writing new chapters as of right now. I will probably be updating once about a week to give myself time to write if possible.

* * *

It's raining demons.

A roaring torrent pours down from the sky, each drop a shrieking demon swirling into a monstrous form. My sword bites deep into the flaming hides of rage demons and rip away before the heat stings my skin. Shattered ice chunks protecting the despair demons shrieks across the air. The sky weeps demons through its wound, tearing itself open as my meager forces scramble about on the ground to stem the flow the best they can.

Demons. They slam down from the Breach and ripple into life. They meld into the realities of this world, solid, whole, but the ghosts of my past grin behind their backs. Memories barred from my mind glide freely across the small clearing, claws scraping against my armor. My familiar nightmares come to life – and the air reeks of the dead.

Again.

Demons, demons, Maker-damned demons springing to life, fluttering in death. Dozens, no, hundreds writhe impaled on my sword in span of the past half hour, and yet they always come back. Maybe they're the same ones from the Kinloch Hold a decade ago, coming back to mock me. Another Shade screams as the world wavers, only to have other two identical Shades fill its place.

Maker. Blasted. Demons.

Cascading down from the sky.

I tear across the clearing with blood dripping from my blade, dotting the trampled snow red and black. Demons from my mind, my memories, or the ones squeezing past the glowing holes in the Veil, it doesn't matter. Demons, demons, demons, glittering everywhere I turn, screaming, shrieking, reeking, blazing hot and cold, both in that dreadful tower and here in this ruined temple. I slice through them all, screaming battle cries until my throat is dry and cracked.

Scorching flames from Rage lick up my shield, while my longsword clangs parrying ice spears Despair hurls. Metallic tang of blood fills my nose each time I heave for breath. My arms ache, numb with exhaustion and I keep tripping over something. I slam Fear onto the ground and stake a sword through its guts.

The chaos of the skirmish swallows me whole. The screams of the dying, stench of cooking flesh, sparks flying across the battlefield, deafening ringing of steel on steel, screeching of talons and claws on metal – this is where I am needed. This is where I can do most good. I can still lift my shield. I can still swing my sword.

Suddenly there are no more demons to kill in sight. Where'd they go? The never-ending waves of... thank the Maker. It's back; a brief respite, a precious moment free of hostiles to brace against the next wave. I gasp for breath and skim over the battlefield.

I take count of the remaining forces. I am responsible for many lives here, all relying on the words falling from my lips. My few scant words become the fork in the road which lead these men either to life or death.

"Lieutenant, get the injured off the field and to safety! Third and fourth units, rotate with the reserve force. Go eat, rest, and standby. First and fifth unit, report for active duty, ready! The next wave is coming soon. Move!" I bark out and people scramble to obey.

How many will die this time around because I order them to stand fast and hold?

How many more will die because I order my men to clear a path to the heart of the Temple?

How many minutes will those deaths buy for the villagers cowering in fear beneath this mountain?

Is it worth it? The lives spilling onto this scorched ground – each with their own friends and families, leaving scars behind in the survivors' hearts. Is clearing the way to the Temple worth _this?_

Maker, I must believe it is. A thousand lives for millions. There will be survivors. Some broken, some shattered, but I will ensure that there will be survivors, even if it costs me my men.

The other leaders of Inquisition will take care of the survivors, in my absence.

The Veil writhes and twists, and I call out to those who do not have blue flowing in their veins. "Here comes the next wave! Shields up!"

And the world is a flurry of color, a whirlwind of morbid, hopeless _feelings._ Rage, Despair, Fear dominates the battlegrounds to reflect the hearts of my force and I carve death into the air, knowing it achieves nothing but to buy the others a few more seconds of life.

Fear's claws screech against my armor and I twist, crunching its skull. Despair's ice bolt howls past my ear – and I throw my left arm with a backhand swipe. The blow wrenches my shoulder and I grit my teeth. That just cost me my shield arm. The spear shatters against my shield and my man tumbles down, pupils blown wide, watching the shower of ice crumbling off my shield.

"Commander!"

He's going to be eaten alive if he sits on his bottom dazed like that. Better pull him up... _Maker's beard!_ That throbbing can't be anything good.

"Always watch your flank," I order, ignoring the ache.

"Ye… yes, ser! Thank you, ser!"

He limps away just as an unfamiliar power plucks at the threads of the Fade. My men cry with bolstered spirits and… ah, there's the Seeker charging forward at the remaining demons. _Maker,_ what a welcome sight she is.

The Rift in the Veil shudders, straining and pulling till its shape is skewed, resisting until it snaps shut like a sprung trap. The thin air where emerald tear had glowed, only drifting snow is now visible. No green tint shades my vision as it has for Maker knows how long, and… could it be? Could I dare to hope?

"It seems that the prisoner has the ability to seal Rifts," the Seeker informs me.

I should jump for joy. I should demand an explanation. I should weep with this new glimmer of hope shining our path.

Instead, I simply nod.

Later, the feelings can come later. The thoughts, the horrors, the truths, they can all come later. And I will wrap them all up and shove it someplace dark where they can't bother me.

The prisoner, the one who holds our salvation in her hands, hiccups.

A thin woman stands beside the Seeker. Habitually, I note the staff slung behind her back. A small part of me, a part I've tried so hard to bury deep inside for the past few weeks, rears its head. It calculates the Mage, measures her powers and prepares my body to counter her magic. She's perhaps in her mid-thirties. Her hair is bright red, with tangles so dreadful it looks like a haystack. And like us she's covered in filth and demon ichor, but underneath that rare silk of her enchanter robe rustles. Her green pupils are blown wide with fear and light speckles brush across her nose. Porcelain skin indicates her long years spent in a Circle, and judging by the way she'd tugged at the Veil she is not a competent Mage, let alone a capable combatant.

It is not possible this woman could have the means to blow up the Conclave on her own. But the Breach takes priority and if this Mage can seal it, then I will save my questions for later.

"The way to the temple should be clear." I inform Cassandra, pointing to the bloody path I have secured with my men. "Leliana will try to meet you there."

"Then we best move quickly. Give us time, Commander." Cassandra clasps me on the shoulder. Her concern for me is blatant in her eyes, and yet neither of us mention the dreadful exhaustion that must be evident. We simply slap each other on the back and pretend we will see one another again, knowing well enough that this may be the last time we see each other in this world.

"Maker watch over you, for all our sakes."

"*~*"

"Commander? Commander!" The sharp crack of her voice finally pierces through the heavy clutches of slumber, and I lift my eyes to see Leliana's worried gaze. I attempt a smile, but my lethargic muscles scrunch up in more of a grimace.

"I'm sorry, Leliana. What were you saying?" I sigh, taking a long swig from the water skin in a feeble attempt to wake myself. The cool liquid wets my parched lips and burning throat. A few drops escape down onto my chin, but Maker, even the very notion of raising my hand to wipe it away is too much.

"Commander, you are overextended. You've been in combat without rest since the Conclave." Leliana's soft voice finally cuts through the numbing haze settling around me.

"I was needed," I say. There is nothing else that needs to be said.

"You'll drop dead if you push on." She chides with a gentle touch, placing a hand on my shoulder to keep me still. And I'm so tired, so weak, that I can't protest even such a small pressure.

"I must-" I start. I must organize the force to march to Haven. I must ready the remaining men on standby. I must set up guard rotation for Haven. I must…

"If you die from fatigue, it'll be a terrible hassle to replace you. Nobody here knows how to run an army besides you." Leliana cuts me off. "So go rest, Commander. If anything urgent arise I will come wake you."

I open my mouth to argue, but a huge yawn interrupts me. Leliana's face softens at the sight, and she pats me on the shoulder.

"Go sleep, Cullen. You are more of use when you aren't tripping over your own feet in exhaustion, I promise. Now that the Breach is stable, you have a moment to rest."

I would rather not, but her point is valid. I should go find a bedroll to fall into, I really should.

I fall asleep right on top of the rock I am sitting on.


	3. Jocelyn Trevelyan

I'm tired. Maker's breath, I can't remember the last time I _wasn't_ tired. The dry eyes, the throbbing ache along my spine, the stiff shoulders, it never ends. However, in the wake of recent events, I suppose exhaustion is acceptable. Alternative would be the deaths of thousands more we cannot afford to lose.

So I breakfast in the Chantry hall, hiding my languid movements from the hawkish eyes of Leliana sitting across the table. The bread from the table is dry and cold, fantastically unappealing.

Inquisition is severely lacking in mounts at the moment. This must be rectified as swiftly as possible. There are rumors of horsemaster Dennet living in Hinterland Redcliffe farm area from the local recruits, but with the current instability in the area…

"Commander, you're supposed to eat the bread, not stare holes into it."

I jerk. Josephine stares pointedly at the bread gripped in my hand and I try for a grin.

"It will hardly taste any different even if I were to eat it hours later. It's remarkably… stony."

She simply returns to her own bread, quiet.

"Any word from your people?" I ask, and Leliana nods while she nibbles on her morsel.

"It is… not good. The fighting is too thick for my agents to break through to most areas."

"So…"

"Harding says it is not possible to send word to Dennet still, if he's even still alive. We need to stabilize the area first."

"Commander, do try to have one meal without worrying about the world falling apart."

Cassandra slides into the empty spot next to me and reaches for her own bread. Following her is the Mage people have taken to calling as the Herald of Andraste.

"Maker knows world's doing that all by itself without me worrying about it," I mutter.

Leliana's people had reported to me early this morning that the prisoner had awoken. The thin Mage slides into the seat next to Josephine and I finally have a chance to assess the woman. I must admit I _am_ curious, and this time there is room for something more than a cursory Templar examination. I tear a piece of bread and dip it in now-cold porridge for some flavor and incline my head in greeting at the newcomer.

She is easy on the eyes. Her flaming hair is smoothed now, reaching to brush her mid-back with each step she takes. Her pupils are dark green melting into light brown. I can see the calculations running through her mind in her gaze as she sweeps the room. Intelligence sparks in that look, and the way she carries herself practically seems to scream _I'm noble-born!_ And unavoidably there is that weak, stuttering magic pulsating from the Mage, a telling sign she is not a threat in that regard. But perhaps she may be vulnerable to possession, as weak Mages are often tempted more easily by blood magic and demons' sweet promises of power.

 _So very unlike_ her. She _was nothing but powerful._

Suddenly the air is too thick and the world spins. Sparks dance in the air, and my heart stutters over a missed beat.

But I do not flinch. Instead, I take a sip of milk and smile at the newcomer.

Maker-damned demons. Fighting so many of them must have weakened my mental discipline. I haven't made a mistake like thinking of… a mistake like this for a long time.

Sickly air oozes into my lungs with forced breaths, and I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose while echoes of greetings sound across the table. The spinning lights fade from my vision and the world rights itself around me, steady once more.

 _I'm fine._

I've spent years – an entire decade now – ignoring the images from my past, banishing the unwelcome memories to a tiny corner deep in my unconscious thoughts. I've gotten excellent at hiding what goes on inside my head – even from myself. No one takes note of my momentary relapse and it's as if nothing happened at all. I can even pretend I am blissfully unaware of which nightmarish wraith had peeked out from the darkest depths of my memories.

Cassandra makes the introductions, mumbling past the bread in her mouth and I finally learn the Mage's name. Jocelyn Trevelyan, a foreign name I have no recollection of hearing before. I suppose I'm a little thankful for that. It is not good for Templars to know of Mages by their reputation. If so… well, Anders was the last Mage I'd known first by reputation.

But Josephine's definitely heard of her before, it seems. Her eyes widen in shock.

"You're the Trevelyan's youngest? Oh my, I must send word to your family at once, informing them of your survival." She jots something down on that piece of vellum she always carries with her and I stifle a sigh, sharing a pointed look with Cassandra. A noble as I've suspected. With any luck, this one will be less of a pain than the others I've had the displeasure of meeting.

Trevelyan picks up a bun, sniffs, scrunches her nose and flicks it onto the floor.

"You there, knife-ear. Bring me something to eat that at least tries to resemble food." She snaps at Solas.

I choke. I pound on my chest to dislodge that stubborn piece of bread, and Cassandra thumps me on my back.

"My name is Solas. I believe we've had our introductions up in the Temple." Solas says, each of his calm words all too audible despite my coughs.

"I don't care what-"

"Herald!" Josephine exclaims and I finally swallow the bread. A quick gulp of milk washing down my throat is enough to bring me back.

"Please, we must treat everyone with respect in times such as this."

"Respect a knife-ear? Why, Ambassador, surely you jest? They are nothing but-"

"Herald. This is not a request. I believe you owe Solas an apology." I cut her off.

She stares at me, disbelief plain in her eyes. I hold her gaze, as steady as I can.

"Fine. If you say so. Sorry. Satisfied?" She mutters, looking away from me. Solas nods his curt acceptance before returning to his breakfast.

"I know the food is perhaps not as… appealing as it could be, but please be forgiving. The Inquisition is still taking its first step and needs all its resources." Josephine continues, and Trevelyan picks up another bread from the table.

"But this-"

"Herald." Cassandra glares and she finally starts to eat. It's a blessing, truly.

Leliana catches my eye, motioning for my attention.

"As I was saying, Hinterlands must be stabilized. Without the Inquisition's forces there, the refugees will die caught between the Mages and Templars."

"Leliana, can't you leave this until we're in the War Room? Let us at least have breakfast without-"

"I'm sorry Ambassador, but gaining mounts is a priority. Without horses, the Inquisition is hobbled. We must close the Rifts in Hinterlands to allow for more forces to be deployed. Let us send Cassandra with Trevelyan-"

"You want me to go out there? Into the battlefield? Why would I ever throw myself between those depraved idiots and Templars?" Trevelyan sputters.

"You have the Mark," I say.

"And the Rifts are scattered across the world." Cassandra shrugs.

"Not to mention Mother Giselle has asked to speak with the Herald of Andraste-" Leliana starts, only to be cut off by Trevelyan's dismissive wave.

"Yes, yes, and I'll have you know I'm as devout as one can be. But I'm not mad enough to willfully stroll into an area teeming with crazed Templars and rebellious Mages."

"We can bring stability to the area-" I try.

"Then I'll go _after_ the stability has been established in the area."

"We need to close the Rift for any semblance of stability in the region, milady." Josephine says.

"If I'm injured, or Maker forbid, killed out there-"

"Enough! This is not a discussion I want to have over breakfast." Cassandra shouts, banging her spoon against the table. Silence falls over us again.

I sigh. With the world going mad, we argue too often. I hope this is as bad as it gets before the Breach is sealed, because I can't remember the last time I had eaten with laughter floating in the air.

Cassandra slaps me on my back and I look at her.

"Don't fall into your porridge, Commander." She says before turning away. I sigh again, resisting the urge to rub at my eyes. Yawn threatens to spill from my mouth.

"How much will we charge for closing the Rifts?"

"…what?"

"The payment for closing Rifts. Would forty gold per affected household do? You aren't-"

"Payment?!" Cassandra shouts, her face darkening to an alarming shade of red.

"How else are we to gain profit?"

"You'd force the refugees to pay?" Leliana asks, amazed.

"I alone hold the power to close the Rifts. Isn't it natural to monetize the market I have absolute monopoly over? How else do you plan to gain the finances required to run the Inquisition?"

Maker's breath, I refuse to listen to this tirade any longer.

"The Inquisition will work. Honest work for honest pay. We will not be extorting money out of the refugees fleeing the war between the Mages and Templars."

"And am I to allow the Inquisition to waste my talents on those wretches?"

"Yes."

"I refuse to-"

"You are the Herald of Andraste, are you not?" Leliana cuts in. "Perform goodwill towards those in need, and more will flock to your banner."

"In that case, it would be prudent to charge the lord overseeing the region-"

"Enough!" Cassandra leaps to her feet. I grab for her – _damnation!_

 _Damn_ the demons and _damn_ that Despair, and _damn_ my shield arm–

Cassandra accidentally catches my porridge with her fingertips and sends it flying at me.

"Maker's breath, Seeker!"

"Commander, I did not mean to… is your arm alright? Were you wounded during the fight?"

"It's fine." I reach for a napkin, with my sword arm. I wipe the sticky broth off but it's not quite enough.

"Please excuse me a moment." I say, moving to stand. Others stare at me, concerned.

"Let us reconvene in the War Room in half hour. I am certain we have much to discuss."

Silent nods bob up and down at the table and I stride out of the hall, glad to be away. Away from one Jocelyn Trevelyan, the noble-born almighty Blessed Herald of Andraste who holds our sole salvation in her left hand.

…Maker help us all.


	4. Someone

"The Templars must help us close the Breach. The Order was founded to fight magic!" I stress yet again.

Why must I enforce this point so many times? How could they think powering up the Mark could possibly be a good idea? A magical Mark they suspect of causing the explosion at the Conclave to begin with? This is ridiculous. The amount of time and energy I spent to convince the others to banish the foolhardy notion of powering up something we barely understand, is ridiculous. But I've gotten us this far, and the others are tittering on the verge of indecision by my words.

A legitimate cause for concern. A logical sense of caution drags them over that fine line, and they are finally willing to consider an alliance with the Templars I suggest to weaken the power of the Breach.

"We must first convince the Lord Seeker to bring the Templars out of exile." Leliana points out, and honestly I can't help but concede the point. I don't know what that blasted man hopes to achieve with this ill-timed exile of the Order.

"I've received word from a Knight-recruit. They gather at Therinfal Redoubt." I look at the map again, recalling the faint rumors of the fortress from my Templar days. "It has been vacant for decades."

"We must approach the Lord Seeker again to get anywhere; but his reception of us last time was… discouraging." Josephine mumbles, and I know what she's thinking. Josephine would rather go for the welcoming rebel Mages than the Templars acting in a most unbefitting manner. But I can't see this world thrown into more chaos brought on by magic, cannot allow for the uncertainty of the power of the Mark.

"I will go." I announce. Stunned gazes land on me and I shrug at their incredulity. "I was the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, as brief as that was. But it still carries weight. We can use that to our advantage. It would simply be a waste for me _not_ to go."

Silence stretches out for a beat while the others think. But eventually Leliana nods, and I know I've won her over.

"Yes, the Commander of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of the City of Chains with a retinue of former Templars from Kirkwall at the Lord Seeker's doorstep? Accompanied by the Herald of Andraste? Even he would find it difficult to ignore that."

"Me?" The Herald squeaks, color draining from her face. Unlike the numerous excursions to Hinterlands, I can't quite fault her this time – a Mage marked a heretic by the Chantry would do well to avoid the Knights of the Order.

"Rumors you were saved from the Fade by Andraste have grown legion among the Templars. We've done our part to encourage them." Josephine puts in with a sly wink. I cough a little to hide my chuckle, looking away from our mischievous ambassador.

"A Herald with a few companions may be dismissed. Easily set aside. That same Herald returning with their most distinguished and youngest Knight-Commander and Templars from the City of Chains will be reconsidered, as will the military might of the Inquisition." Josephine finishes, and the Herald cocks her head in thought. After a moment, she nods with a determined glint to her eyes.

"This could be why Andraste saved me. To lead her Templars against the Breach."

I must cough a bit louder this time after witnessing the look of disgust Cassandra throws at the Mage. But Josephine doesn't miss the chance to solidify her motivation and adds, "perhaps also to convince the Lord Seeker to abandon the mania that has seized him."

I throw a hacking fit, pressing a fist against my mouth as Cassandra's scowl deepens and I tremble, desperate to swallow my bubbling laughter. Leliana sends me an annoyed glance, but I catch the flitting look of amusement crossing her eyes and I grin at her hidden behind my hand.

"*~*"

It was good to laugh before I left Haven, because I imagine my scowl is an identical pair to what Cassandra had worn back in the War Room.

During the long ride to Therinfal Redoubt, I have the displeasure of discovering the Herald's unmatched talent for complaining. With attention to details I would not have believed possible from her, she speaks endlessly of the poor accommodations being made for the Blessed Hero of Andraste. I suffer through her complaints of bland travel rations, of the cold sleeping rolls, of lack of servants to warm her shoes, of the rocky road, of the thin tent walls… and somewhere after that I develop a Maker-blessed skill of selective deafness to tune out her constant stream of voice. When she finally drifts away to inspect the soldiers carrying her possessions with Vivienne, I take the chance to mutter to Cassandra, "Is she always like this?"

"She's actually behaving quite well. It seems having you with us is lightening her mood."

Then and there, I vow to buy Cassandra a drink for her pains when we return to Haven. Or two. Or ten. I tell her so and Cassandra grins, punching my shoulder in response. I wince, my shield arm still sore from that ice bolt I blocked with a backhand.

"I'll not fail to take you up on that offer, Commander."

"Oh, is Cassandra actually smiling? How incredible!" Comes her voice, and we share a look of despair. Like so we continue to march on to Therinfal Redoubt, praying for the long winding road to end before a certain _someone_ drives us insane.

Each night the Herald insists on keeping me company by the fire, passing time with inane chatter. She nudges me for details of my life, and I reveal just enough to satisfy her. She asks of my time spent as a Templar, of my time in Kirkwall. Why does she ask me of what life is like in the Circle, when I already know she's spent most of her adulthood in one? When my answers are unsatisfactory, she delves deeper into my mind, inching closer to where I have gathered and buried all the scars. She pecks at the dregs of my memories, pries into my time during the Fifth Blight and the fall of Kirkwall. She knocks at the dam holding back the torrent of nightmares, testing for its weakness and I twist away, locking and relocking the gates to keep it secure.

She doesn't give up – she scratches away at the walls, pawing at my defenses. She nearly breaks through on the last evening of our march. She asks over the campfire when she senses I've lowered my guard, "Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?"

Preoccupied with the correspondences from the Inquisition in my hand, I respond without much thought.

"No. I fear I made few friends there, and my family's in Ferelden."

"No one special caught your interest?" She persists, feigning disinterest.

Immediately, _she_ floods my mind at the question. _Her_ secretive little smile meant just for me. _Her_ long flowing ebony locks curling around that little dip low in _her_ back. _Her_ porcelain skin, pale enough to make me wonder if I could see through it. Intoxicating scent which put me at comfort no matter the harsh berating I received from ranking officers. I remember the way _her_ hands stretched up to reach for the books on the highest shelf, the way _she_ strained on _her_ tip toes and cursed _her_ height. And most of all, _her_ soft black eyes seeking my gaze across the room to hold a thousand silent, wordless conversations with me.

Blasted. Demons.

Tearing down my barriers, making me _remember._

I remember _her_ with vivid clarity sharp enough to bleed my heart anew.

There _was_ someone, someone special… someone so special that even to this day _she_ occupies that deepest corner in my mind, always shackled shut lest _she_ undo me from within.

The Herald pokes me for an answer, and I strangle out a few words, desperation clawing at my voice to just barely keep it from breaking. With my heart thumping too hard in my chest, I grind out my answer.

"Not in _Kirkwall_."


	5. Champions of the Just

It is easy to spot that Knight-Templar, standing a little straighter than others. An unbroken man. A man indignant at the injustice being done to the Order. A man who is filled to the brim with hope and unwavering faith. A man I once was. A man I am no longer.

He comes up to me before I even dismount.

"I'm Barris, the one who sent word to you." He starts as I hand off my reigns to a Templar.

"Barris? Pretty moderate holdings if I remember correctly… but a second son? That's who they send to greet us?" The Herald scowls, which the Knight pointedly ignores.

"You said the Inquisition works to close this Breach in the Veil. I am glad to see a retinue of Templars coming to aid us. I do not doubt that your hard-won experience will convince the Lord Seeker." With all haste he hauls us into the Keep, while explaining to us of the Lord Seeker's claims of holy mandate, of their commanders with new found parroting habits.

Templars guard the two doors leading into the room and archers with nocked arrows line the floor above. There is… _something_ within the Knight-Captain standing before me. The Herald extends her arm in greeting but…

Ah! That's where I felt it before. It's the vileness I first noticed within the Knight-Commander Meredith in Kirkwall. Andraste preserve us, this cannot be anything but a trap!

"Shields up! Shields up, _now!"_ I shout, grabbing the Herald by the scruff and throwing her into Vivienne's arms while bringing up my own shield to cover the two Mages. Not a moment too soon, arrows slam into my shield, each a heavy thud. _Maker_ , there's that pain again. My shield arm had better hold up through this madness…

"Kill them, kill them all!" The Knight-Captain shrieks.

I unsheathe my sword and kick at the table, crashing it into the raving Knight-Captain. He tumbles to the ground and I leap onto him while yelling, "Cassandra, Barris! Protect the Herald and Vivienne! The rest of you, form a shield wall! Keep your heads down, watch for the archers!"

I bring the pommel down onto the Knight-Captain's temple. With a crack he falls unconscious and I move onto others.

"Keep that shield wall in place and fill in the gaps! Varric, get those archers!"

Crimson blood spurts, drenching the floor. A man's spine crunches beneath my blow. I clench my teeth, and wrench my blade out of him and shout.

"Men, these are no longer our brothers and sisters! The Order has turned! Fight for your lives!"

The Inquisition roars, our voice a thunder in the ridiculously packed room. A small blessing – perhaps they weren't expecting a company of this large a size. The archers above us cannot easily get a clear shot. I charge forward, my shield bashing my enemies out of the way. My men have their orders. No amount of yelling on my part would help them survive from here on out. No, the best way to keep my men alive is to _fight_ , to kill the people I once called my brethren.

I bang my sword and shield together and roar, challenge them to attack me. They scurry towards me like ants while Varric picks off the archers to keep them off me.

I crush someone's knee. Her scream rings against the stone walls.

I slit someone's throat. Blood fountains from the cut, his sick gurgle buried under pained wails of injured men.

I decapitate another. His head flies off and bounces once, twice.

They were my comrades.

I slam another with my shield, her bones shattering against me.

I think I knew a few of them. I think I shared meals with them once.

Soon there are no more brothers and sisters to kill. With the stone floor sleek with their blood, I stand panting at the center of the gore splattered room.

"How many wounded?" I cannot think beyond that now. I cannot afford to think beyond that. The capacity to think, to _feel_ is a burden I am far too aware of.

"Three wounded from arrows. Two more wounded with swords. You saved many when you ordered shields up." Cassandra comes up to me, also splattered in the blood and gore of my once-comrades. My now enemies. Maker, how… what could turn the Order… _stop_. Later, I can worry about this later.

"And you. Your shield arm – how bad is it?" She eyes my left.

"I'm fine _._ But this is a disaster," I say, swiping my sword over my shield to sever the embedded arrow shafts. My arm throbs… ruptured tendons and torn muscles, probably. Feels like it, at least.

"Commander! They've barricaded the door from the other side!" Someone calls to me.

Cassandra looks like she wants to argue, but I brush her off with a jerk of my head. My arm can wait. My priority is to get my men out of here, _alive_. By Andraste's grace, these men have survived Kirkwall. I did not drag them from the burning city through the exploding Conclave and torn skies so they could be murdered by the hands of our own Order. My damned arm can be dealt with, after. After… this _mess._

"Report, lieutenant."

"Commander! Door has been barricaded to cut off our retreat. We've tried to bash it in, but…"

"Reinforced?"

"Yes, ser."

Right, of course. I suppose it was too much to hope for. The only remaining option would be to carve out a path to the Lord Seeker, cut off the commanding officers of the Order, then to seize the moment of resulting disarray to secure an escape route. The door leading deeper into the keep should not be reinforced. We must be able to break through, and fight to the heart of the keep. But if we are to fight through a hostile fortress…

"Vivienne, tend to the wounded once your magic returns. Against an entire keep full of Templars, you will be more effective as a healer than a combatant," I start. Vivienne nods, spells already flickering on her fingertips.

"Herald, assist…"

I trail off, noticing the woman shivering behind Varric. Varric shakes his head, and Cassandra whispers at me. _Do not bother. She has no skills in healing arts._

I move on.

"Barris, take the Knight-Captain's keys. We'll need them." He searches the man lying prone on the floor. I'd like nothing more than to kick the unconscious Knight-Captain…

Barris whisks out the keys from the man's torso, and slams him down on the ground. I suppose he will unlock the door when he composes himself.

My men are scattered around the room. They seem stunned, blank stares trained on their hands covered in blood of the Order we were all once part of. There's disbelief there. And anger. Grief. Guilt.

I walk up to them and bellow.

"We must question the Lord Seeker about what is going on here. Men, brace yourselves. We will fight to the heart of the Keep, and bring justice to those who have turned the Order against themselves. We will fight, and we will be victorious! We will survive!"

Lifeless eyes turn to focus on me, cloudy. I do not falter. I cannot falter.

"And we will save those untainted by this madness! We will comb this Keep, take the very stones apart if we must, to find the remaining survivors of the Order, and bring them into our fold. Inquisition, for ourselves, and for our suffering brethren! Raise your swords, lift your shields! We will not submit to this corruption!"

Sparks fly in their eyes and they nod, clench their fists and roar their assent. A war cry erupts, and men spring to their feet. Swords bash against shields and fists thump on chests.

 _Maker, allow my words to become more than simple words. For all our sakes._

"*~*"

There is more. There is always more.

"They're monstrous!" Cassandra cries as we work past the narrow corridors of the Keep, slaughtering the Templars blocking our way.

"We all noticed," Vivienne snaps. For once I agree with her. What purpose is there to point out the glaringly obvious? My men and I seal our lips with guilt, searching for any resistant forces battling for their lives. We spill out into the courtyard of the Keep, encountering towering monsters as well as those who still retain humanoid forms. The sensation of my blade burying itself into their hearts burns in my limb.

First the demons spilling from the Breach, and now this. The Order tainted crimson, men and women screeching like butchered hogs, striking out at any and all in driven rage.

Our hearts sag with the weight of the lifeblood we spill of our comrades-in-arms. They come in unrelenting waves, crashing into us with maddening repetition. They scream for their Elder One, and for us to be stained red too. The Templars scream and holler, lift their arms and fight, or run around in circles cackling with drool slobbering out their mouth.

Lyrium, lyrium. It is everywhere. It flows in the veins I spill onto the ground. It grows clustered on the walls. Shards come flying at me as monstrous red lyrium giants stomp about the battlefield. It sings to me, an angry song I've not heard before. It whispers in my mind, the quietest scratch itching in the back of my mind. Singing so soft in my mind that I do not notice it until I am humming along to its maddening tune. It creeps along my mind, slithering through my soul, a seductive lure. Its tantalizing tune knocks against my defenses, snaking its way past the deadbolts of my once-secure memories.

I am humming. Or am I singing? I can _feel_ the tune carried in the wind. It is so thick within the Keep, so soft… there are whispers nagging for my attention. Maybe, if I focus, I'll be able to make out the words… the quiet murmurs that are scratching on my brain. What are they saying? An angry song – enraging and yet so comforting… it is getting louder. I can… I can almost…

"Commander! Look!"

The words slip past my fingers into oblivion.

I blink; Maker, what was I… was that... Andraste preserve me, the red lyrium…

No, it can't be! What is wrong with us? Those vacant eyes of my men – pupils blown wide, heads cocked to the side as if they are straining their ears to hear something, and yet we all know it is in our brains.

Maker turn His gaze on us. The red lyrium is affecting us too.

"Commander?" Cassandra turns around, and I snap to attention.

"Yes, Seeker."

"This is – look." She thrusts the report at my face and I skim it.

This is... details of an assassination… of Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch… order received and executed by… Knight-Captain Denam… that must be the madman from earlier. It was signed by… Lord Seeker Lucius?! And the dangerous effects of red lyrium… administer to Templars without arousing suspicion, expose the officers first, then the Knights...

"Commander…"

A few of my men peer at me, and I crumple the report in my hand. Red streaks across my vision, red that has nothing to do with these whispering lyrium in my brain. My pulse speeds and blood roar in my ears. There are traitors within the Order. I want to scream. I want to tear their heads off their shoulders. I want their _blood._

"Men," I spit out. I don't recognize that voice – it's rough and low, more a growl of a beast than words of a man.

"This report proves the officers of the Order knew full well the dangers of red lyrium." The room grows quiet despite the ringing steels outside.

"Our brothers and sisters of the Order were poisoned by the commanders they entrusted their lives to," I snarl, striking my fist against the wall.

"Inquisition!"

My men salutes, their right fists slamming over their hearts.

"Ser!" They roar.

"As the Commander of the Inquisition, and as the former Knight-Commander of the Order, I decree this order! Do not die!"

"I will not permit a loss of single life by these treacheries! As those who have once been part of the Order, it is our duty to survive and judge the traitors with our own hands! Men, hold fast against our victimized brethren, give them mercy they rightfully deserve! And with our hands stained red with their blood, we will bring justice to this Lord Seeker and those who are guilty!"

"Ser!" They thunder, swords and shields clanging, fists pounding.

"We will fight! We will survive! And we will have our reckoning! Inquisition, with me!"

Erupting cheer deafens me, shaking the room down to the core. They charge out into the clearing once more to be stained red, and to survive. Leading them against the tide of tainted Templars, I know there is no room for the crimson song any longer.


	6. Envy's Nightmare

I am back. Back into this realm of merciless dreams.

My palm grows sleek with sweat. My leather gloves stick, too snug, too tight around my fingers. The tip of my sword is wavering – and I can't make it stop. I can't make it stop trembling. It won't stop. It just won't stop shaking.

Maker, how could I be back? Not again. Never again, no I cannot endure such tortures again. I am not strong enough. I'm too weak to resist _her_ all over again. There's that familiar ghosting touch of a spiteful demon trailing her fingers down my leg, with _her_ hands… lies! _She_ has never touched me with _her_ bare hands! Not once! I've never felt _her_ warmth against my skin. I do not know the feel of _her_ soft, tender touch. I have never known the comfort of _her_ flesh – I realize that! It is forbidden for a Mage and a Templar. There are rules! And we have never, ever shared the warmth of one another. No matter how I hungered for it, how desperately I thirsted for it, not once did our fingers even brush together.

So why, Maker turn His gaze on me, why, must I know the feel of her flesh? Why must I know even without seeing how her coy smile, once so sweet and pure, is twisted into vile glee eager to feast upon my terrors? Why must I be aware of how triumphant she looks as she trails her hand down my thigh?

Why? Why must I feel her hands tugging on my trousers? Why must she yank at my leg? And… again? Then again…

Clenching my sword I peek down at my feet, ready to strike at Desire I expect to find wearing _her_ form, wearing _her_ smile.

Jocelyn Trevelyan's tear-streaked face stares back at me. She tugs, whimpering, whining, ruined makeup running with her tears.

Why in Andraste's name would a demon impersonate the Herald, of all people? It doesn't make _sense_. Of all the people, why the woman who's been hounding me since the moment we met? Do I place that much value on her Mark? I _should_ , but am I truly more obsessed with that Mark than with _her?_

No. No, I am not. Maker forgive me, the answer is no.

Then perhaps this woman is the real Herald, not Desire I am so familiar with.

"Herald?" I reach down and help her to her feet. She clings to me, burrowing into my arms.

"Cullen? What's happening? Where are we? What's going on?" She babbles, one hand gripping tight over my metal bracer and the other resting over my breastplate. I wince under the pressure, spikes of pain piercing in my shield arm. Her presence, as… unfortunate as it is, is calming. Her inaptitude pulls me away from… well, there is no purpose to reminding myself of… nothing of importance.

"Cullen! You'll protect me? You must!" The Herald cries into my chest. I pat her with awkward taps on her back, taking care not to strike her with the pommel of my sword I'm still holding nor the shield still slung on my left forearm.

I am armed. I am not helpless. It helps. I try to imagine it helps.

"Of course, Herald. Tell me, is this the Fade?" I ask. I must ascertain this. I cannot move forward with that doubt shadowing my mind, terrified of being dragged across time and space into those nightmares I have done my best to ignore for a decade.

She sniffs and pulls a handkerchief out to dab at her eyes – how had that handkerchief remain unstained with blood? – and looks around this strange realm.

"I… I don't know. Maybe? I think… it feels a little different than my Harrowing. But I was never good at magic."

"Can you stand? We must move."

"No! I don't want to!"

"Herald-"

"What if something attacks us? Why can't we just stay here until someone comes? I'm the Herald of Andraste. Someone will come to rescue me."

"Herald, how do you expect anyone to find us?"

"They will figure it out. I am of importance!"

"Whatever dragged us to this place is aware of our presence, Herald. We must move before our enemy decides to strike."

"But-"

"Herald!" I can't help the way my voice rises. She flinches at my harsh tone and I sigh.

She is from the Circle. She was sheltered. She is new to this life of war – she is not being aggravating on purpose. She is simply afraid… I know this, but Maker! Shouldn't she have picked up a thing or two by now, trekking through the Hinterlands with Varric and Cassandra since the Conclave?

She sniffs and tears dangle from her eyes. She looks as if she'll start crying again – and that will get us nowhere.

"Come, Herald. I will not allow for you to be harmed," I say. She grabs at my cloak with trembling hands and nods.

"Can I fix my makeup before we go?"

She is not doing this on purpose. She simply doesn't understand. She is not doing this on purpose. She simply doesn't understand-

"Cullen?"

"No, Herald. We will move, now."

"But, I must look-"

" _Now_ ,"

With her in tow, I wander this strange place. Flickering walls, fluttering shadows. I do not know this unfamiliar realm – and yet, I do. It is a place of fragmented memories, jagged images, and familiar discomfort. It is a smoky land tinted with green of the Veil and red of the corrupt lyrium – invasive to this realm I supposedly do not know.

Flaming corpses of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, contorted in agonizing death throes. Images of Leliana and Josephine, of myself flicker to life and extinguish. Leliana slits my throat with a wicked dagger and I fall – provoking us with images of blood dripping down our hands.

My hand stabs into the Herald, soaking the ground crimson with her blood. The Herald screams and weeps but I snort. The dreams of Kinloch Hold are my nightly companions – these little plays do little more than strengthen my resolve to leave this place and right what has been wronged. The Herald clings and cries into my cloak but a few threatening swipes with my sword and the images fade. Quiet cackle wafts in the air, whispers of promise lingering behind in twisted memories of the Herald's.

I've heard of such demons before. During the time I spent studying the lore of different demons and magic, I had studied its kind briefly. An Envy demon – so rare that not many even know of their existence. It studies and copies, and it seems the Herald is its target.

Would the demon be able to mimic the Mark as well? Would it be able to close the Rifts? Not that it matters. I would see her safely carried outside the clutches of this Envy. I will not allow for her to fall here. I drag her through the memories of the future, visions of the past, watching the Inquisition caged, the faithful slaughtered. Demon armies, assassinations of the monarch, and fall of the Inquisition, and with it, Thedas.

"Envy is hurting you." Something whispers, a drop of clear liquid amidst the dry reality. I think I hear it, but what am I listening for? Why do I feel soothed, here of all places?

"Mirrors on mirrors on memories."

Morphed echoes of the truth of what happened. The Herald barely remembers what is real and what are lies Envy is feeding her. I must get her out of this realm, before Envy rips away all that makes her Jocelyn Trevelyan. Even if what makes her Jocelyn Trevelyan is straining to bear on my person.

"A face it can feel. A face it can fake. I want to help. You, not Envy."

A boy stands upside down. It is so natural for him to be there – so right for him to be present. He blinks into my awareness, young and awkward, but willing to help. It's like fate, as if Andraste has intended for him to find us. And it only makes me suspicious.

"Who are you?" I ask, sword raised, shield up. He blinks away, and I forget. He appears again, and I am aware.

"Black, twisted, cold stones of the tower. Dripping, oozing blood smearing into clothes, horrors carved into memories, precious, hideous. Dry, cracked lips struggling for the next breath, cold, burning. Betrayed me, condemned me, yet was my savior. Heated breath, singing voice raised in a scream never heard before, _not my Templar!"_

"Stop!" I howl, driving my sword forward but he is gone. Words melt away from my mind, and the boy appears next to me and the Herald, eyes wide.

"Your hurt is louder. I want to help."

"Who are you?" I ask. He is familiar, yet foreign. I have not met him before, and yet I know him.

"I can help. I want to help her too. Her first. I'm Cole. I've been watching. We're inside her. Or we are. She's always inside her."

"I do not know you. And yet, you are familiar."

"I don't know you. I listen, hearing, helping. I hope. Envy hurt her, _is_ hurting her. I tried to help like you. Then we were here, in the hearing. It's – it's not usually like this."

"Start making sense! I order you to tell us exactly what's happening in my head! Who are you? What's going on? Tell me everything!" The Herald screeches, suddenly bursting forward to grab at the boy. But the boy – spirit? Demon? – speed away, only to blink into life on a bookshelf some distance away.

"It never works like that," he replies.

"How does it work?" I ask.

"I was watching. I watch. Every Templar knew when Inquisition arrived. They were impressed, but not like the Lord Seeker."

"So… you read minds?"

"No. Yes. Kind of. Not really."

"What is Envy thinking?"

"It wants to be her. It twisted the commanders, forced their fury, their fight. They're red inside."

My entire body flush. I will not allow for it to escape unscathed.

"Envy is trying to take her face. I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here. Same for you. All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more."

"So we must keep moving."

"You trust that thing?" She gaps at me as if I've gone daft.

"It's more than sitting here, waiting to lose your face."

"Keep away from me, demon!"

"It's good you came with her. Lucky for her." Cole looks to me before evaporating.

"It was necessary," I mutter.


	7. Hope

Parched throat. Lips dry, cracked, peeling, with thirst. No, _thirst_ doesn't even begin to describe the desperate want that boils inside me. Arid, scratchy, scorched till not a drop of moisture remains on my tongue; I want, _need,_ that cool relief soothing me from within.

"Here, Cullen. Take some," Barris thrusts one into my hand. A nice chilling drink to curb all my acute desire, to replenish all that I've spent.

I _want._

Maker, I want it more than anything.

Cool, blue lyrium. Singing to me, soft, familiar, comfortable.

My hand shakes holding that small vial. It rattles me, I know. I could down it in one gulp, throw it back like it's nothing, like how the others are all doing it.

But I swore. For so many reasons, I swore.

"Give it to the others. I've already had enough," _for a lifetime._

I hope my voice is as firm as I want it to be. I push that vial back into his hands as if burned, and he throws me a curious glance.

 _Do not ask, do not ask,_ I chant in my head. _Just. Don't. Ask._

Please.

He turns away, searching out for another who is more willing to accept his goodwill. I let out a breath and a hand grips my arm. I turn to find Cassandra with iron grasp over the chink in my armor, eyes ablaze with... acknowledgment. Pride. She gives me that wordless encouragement before stepping away to prepare herself for the upcoming battle.

I do not feel proud. I feel tired. I feel hurt. At least, that's what I imagine I feel. I am so drained, that I can no longer feel the pains I know I should be feeling. My capacity to feel such things, of anything really, overused and ragged, stopped functioning properly so long ago.

Almost like a Tranquil.

Ha! The things the Mages would do to me if they could read my mind. But it is time to banish the silly thoughts from my head. Plucking unwanted thoughts from my worn mind, dispatching them in some dark corner so they can't bother me. So I can be the man others need me to be.

Because with those thoughts floating freely in my mind, I wouldn't be anything but a pathetic, shriveling lump of meat in need of a merciful death.

But I am not. I am the Commander of the Inquisition, and they need me. So, I better gather myself and-

"You help them. But what about you?"

I turn my head to find that boy, Cole, watching me with those eerie big eyes. I don't remember him being there a moment ago.

"What?"

"Hurting, freezing, burned by the fire of betrayal. Hurt after hurt, growing wounds piled, festering, rotting, pushed off because they need me. There is always something more. You help them, dedicate yourself, to helping them."

"Stop." The words hammer down the barricades, crumbling it to dust and blowing it away. Words that lingers, and yet doesn't.

"And the eyes, the dark gleaming eyes watching, knowing, not my Templar. I failed her. Pushing, pulling, fragmented memories, buried in the hurt, forgotten. Erased. Maker forgive me, I failed _her_."

"Cullen?" I whip around, sword tip flying to a pale throat.

The Herald falls to the ground, hiccupping. Tears well up to spill down her cheeks again, and guilt drops me to my knee to help her up.

"Apologies, Herald. Are you alright?"

"No! Nothing about this is alright! All these crazy Templars trying to kill us, Envy trying to steal my face, and can you believe I broke my nails? Three of them! And then you point your sword at me? How could you!"

She shakes her hands out for me to see her ridiculously long nails – and three somewhat reasonable nails – screaming her grief.

Where is Vivienne when you need her?

"Curly! They're starting!"

I swallow at the welcome intrusion, shooting Varric a look of gratitude. I incline my head to the Herald and stride to the front of our combined forces.

"Keep them off us, and we will give you Envy," Barris nods to me, eyes steeled. I do not doubt he will deliver.

"We will show no mercy." I promise.

 **"*~*"**

My former Templars stay true to my words. No mercy, none. Envy has much to answer to, and each of my men strikes with anguish driving their blades.

It flutters away too soon, and I hear the cries of frustrations echoing around the courtyard. There wasn't enough flesh for my men to vent their anger at. Nowhere enough to answer for the crimes of staining us all red, either with the poisoned lyrium or with our comrades' blood.

The feeling it leaves behind is almost frightful, hollow. All that blood, those lives, _wasted._ I failed my Oath once before, in Kirkwall. I swore never again, and yet here I am.

Holding a bloody sword.

Ending the lives of those I've sworn to protect.

"Andraste be praised: She shielded you from its touch," Barris limps up to me and an echo of a deranged laughter trickle up from inside.

What did he see? The aftermath of a mighty battle of justice, me condemning the vile demon with Andraste-blessed blade? I am soaked in blood of my brothers and sisters, seething that the demon died too quickly for me to stab it enough times to cool my fury.

Blast it all.

"We've numbers across Thedas, but we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it or were complicit. The Order is leaderless, gutted by betrayal. No one stands to guide us, none besides you."

… _What?!_

"You were once one of us. Our youngest and most distinguished Knight-Commander the Order has ever known. You left the fold, and yet still performed our duty while we ignored the truth and allowed for corruption to seep into our ranks. Will you not guide us? Lead us, and rebuild us with your unmatched honor and valor."

For once, I am at a loss for words while I am the Commander. I grit my teeth tight, because I fear if I don't my mouth will gape open in shock.

I've left the Order, for good. I swore, I will never be part of that again. Of watching Mages, of the paranoia ruling over my days. Of the shackles bolted shut around my throat in a form of lyrium, of losing my mind and hurting, killing everything I swore I would hold dear.

And now they ask me to lead them, rebuild them from the ground up.

What does one say to an offer such as this? How does one respond to an offer such as this? Because clearly this is not a matter I can decide as the Commander, nor as Cullen who is but shattered fragments barely held together with sworn Oaths and brutish stubbornness.

I must refuse. I cannot shoulder this burden. It is one thing to help, entirely another to bear responsibilities. I am far too aware of this. The Order, is something I must-

A boy pulls at my hand, and point towards the Breach glowing in the sky.

"You help," the boy whispers.

The Breach, crawling ever so slowly across the sky. It twists and rumbles, ominous yet beautiful.

My objective is to gain support from the Templars, to seal the Breach and prevent chaos from seizing Thedas. And by the Maker, I will not fail as spectacularly as I did all my life, not when they are serving it to me on a platter; not for something so insignificant as my peace of mind.

"Commander?" Cassandra prompts me, and I inhale the air thick with coppery blood. With it, I shove all the doubts and confusion, the sticky _feelings_ away somewhere deep.

"Templars, the Order was once a symbol of protection for the people. With the Inquisition, seal the Breach, restore what was lost, and rebuild to the ideals of the Oath we've sworn to guard and protect. I offer you this: My counsel when you desire, in turn for performing the duties Templars have held back from: a shield against the dangers of magic."

"Do we take our trusted brother's terms, brothers and sisters?" Resounding roars answer Barris' call, one voice of the many.

"The Templars will come, Commander. I hope your stronghold is ready," Barris smiles.

A little bud of hope, blooming from the barren land stained red. It is more than what we had just moments ago.

"We'll be ready," I respond. A crooked smile finds its way to my lips as well.


	8. A Brief Respite

"Somebody tell me, what did I do?"

It's the first thing out of my mouth when we return to Haven. Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra stares at me, uncomprehending.

"Did I recruit the remaining Templars into the Inquisition? Or are we allied? Do they answer to me?" I shrug, rattling off the questions that's been swimming in my mouth the entire ride back to Haven.

"Tell me, Commander. What did you _think_ you were doing?" Cassandra asks, a glimmer of amusement all too evident.

"Josephine will figure out the details later?"

"Thank you, Commander, for placing _such_ surmountable trust in my abilities."

"Besides, I think I left enough room for you to work with, Ambassador."

"True. Which is why we should discuss their imminent arrival."

"A few dozen veterans are coming ahead of the rest to help seal the Breach," I inform them. They were practically on our heels the entire way back.

"How soon until these veterans arrive?" Leliana asks.

"They're almost here. Templars don't like to be late."

That boy, Cole, materializes on the War Table, inspecting my war piece.

"Maker, you!" I cry.

I know this boy – I r _emember_ this boy – helping. Helping us through the Therinfal Redoubt. Appearing, and repeatedly melting away, fading from my awareness despite the helping.

"Wait!" I thrust my hand out to stop Cassandra from drawing her sword, and shake my head at Leliana. Josephine is hiding behind my back, already out of the way of an expected fight.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I came with you, to help. I would have told you before, but you were busy."

"Why follow me? Why follow in secret at all?"

"Your hurt, loud, echoing, twisting upon itself. Louder than any. Bad hurt. I want to help. You. Your turn now."

"Help me? Help me how?"

"It made you sad. You listened to the memories and not the words. Blood dripping, trapped in that murky place again, nothing steady, morphing, shifting, shimmering, fingers tugging, pulling at your clothes, eyes gleaming, watching. Smell of oranges, but she wasn't there."

I can _feel_ the color draining from my face, while Cassandra and Josephine cock their heads and shrug. But out the corner of my eye I see Leliana stiffening, her eyes widening at the words tumbling out of Cole's mouth. Of course she knows of what… _whom_ he speaks of. How could she not? She was there, with _her,_ for a year.

The scent of oranges.

 _Maker._

"Cole-" I strangle out, thin and creaking through the effort. Others stare at me, wondering, curious, but I can't, no I can't. It is too much. I've spent my life running, hiding from _this,_ and he drags it out into the light in a room full of my colleagues! The memories, the tortures, feelings of contentment, pleasure, and ecstasy mingled with fear, madness, and corruption, all that I've buried and shoved off, never revealing-

"No, that was wrong. Sorry. Forget,"

I stare at him, waiting for my answer.

"I won't be in the way. Tiny, no trouble, no notice taken unless you want them to."

"I won't give you free run of the camp." I growl, but he takes no notice.

"I want to help,"

He is gone.

"Where did he go?" Cassandra yelps, and I sigh.

"He tends to do that. He'll be here somewhere, I imagine."

"I'll have people watch the boy. But let's not be distracted, yes? The veterans are coming?" Leliana steers us back, and I rub at my neck. Yes, work. Ever-present, never-ending, steady, unyielding, breeding-like-nugs work. It does wonders to distract me from my strangely unsettled stomach.

"Will the Templars be satisfied with their accommodations here?" Josephine looks to me.

"Ha! How fancy do you think rooms were at the Circle?" I chuckle.

"I… don't know, now that I think about it."

"The quarters we provide will do, trust me."

"Well, I'll take your word for it. I trust you will set aside the necessary room for the Templars?"

"I will."

A mental note for myself. Another long day today, of organizing quarters and resources. I suppose it's no surprise to see my duties triple in size with the new alliance in place.

"I say we demand more from our alliance. They did their best to blight their own knights, why should we offer them quarters and resources?"

"Leliana, the uncorrupted Templars did what they could to resist Envy. We must give them a chance. I was there; they deserve another chance."

"I didn't even know Envy demons existed," Josephine says, distracted.

"Nor I. Hiding in plain sight. Some must be impossible to find."

"Not entirely. Envy is never satisfied with a single face for long. But it is good that we ferreted out that one before it did any more harm to the Order," I grumble.

"Speaking of which, will we have enough lyrium for the Templars?" Cassandra asks.

Shameful, _shameful,_ how my own body reacts to that one word. One word, and there are tingles rushing through my bloodstream. Salivating like a starved wolf, really…

And… now Leliana knows. Maker's breath, how does she _do_ that? I did little more than shiver! I might as well come clean on my own accord now that she's caught wind of it. It's only a matter of time…

"Commander?"

"Hmm? Ah, no, we must acquire a more steady supply of lyrium for the Templars. I will assist in determining the amount needed."

"Thank you, Commander. I will request a meeting with the dwarven merchants guild. It would be the only way to secure a reliable supply of lyrium without the support of the Chantry. Unless you know of…?"

"No. Dwarven merchants will suffice."

"As you say, Commander."

"There is still the matter of what exactly to do with the Templars," Leliana says, eyes careful as she examines me.

"Yes, but it would not hurt to discuss the details of an alliance with Templars after we make certain they will not suffer from withdrawals here. I'm confident our Ambassador will make it work once they arrive."

Leliana arches her brows, but otherwise stays quiet. I suppose she wishes to be more certain before accusing _me_ of lyrium withdrawals.

"Commander, don't think we don't know you're trying to escape from the talks. You set this up. You _have_ to be involved, if not leading the negotiations."

I snort.

"Do you really think I should lead the negotiations? You know as well as I do that is not my area of expertise."

" _Involved,_ Commander. Or Josephine could put you as the head of the Templars. Mighty Commander of the Order, leading the blighted Templars back onto the path of righteousness under the guidance of Blessed Herald of Andraste?"

"I certainly could," Josephine grins.

"Maker preserve me, anything but that! I'll be there."

"Excellent,"

"Andraste, what did I do to deserve this?" I groan, if only to see the others laugh. These moments are few and far between and if they can find a few light-hearted smiles on my expense, then that is fine by me.

"Just to reiterate, you have no wish of rebuilding the Templars Commander?" Josephine looks to me, eyes still smiling.

"No, I have neither the time nor the will to do so. I am no longer a Templar."

"Glad to hear it. The Inquisition would miss its Commander far more than you'd expect."

"I'm not quite certain if that was a compliment, Seeker."

"Oh? If you caught that then perhaps you are ready for the delightful intricacies of duels with words."

"I yield."

"So quickly?"

"I know a hopeless battle when I see one." I grin, shaking my head.

"You're certain you don't want to launch a last, desperate suicide attack?" Leliana smiles at me, and I laugh.

"No, I'll bide my time for the next assault. I have much to do, excuse me." I nod before fleeing (with grandeur) from the War Room. Echoes of laughter follow me out and it is good to be able to smile, even just a little, after that mess at the Therinfal Redoubt.


	9. Andraste's Will

Just. One. More. Bloody. Turn.

Maker's breath, I should be used to patching myself up after the number of injuries I've received over the years.

Biting down on one end, I throw the thin white strip of linen over my shoulder and tug. My teeth grind through the fabric as I bite down to tighten the bandage over my once-again injured shoulder. The poultice smeared on my shoulder makes it slip a little, but it finally holds this time.

"Commander,"

Sudden light pierces my eyes and icy winds send shivers over me, raising goosebumps. The tent flap lowers behind the two men and it once again blocks out the rising sun, dimming the inside of my tent.

"Barris," I mumble, bandage still pulled taut in my mouth. He salutes smartly.

His second salute to me as his commanding officer. Just last night the Templars laid down their flaming swords and joined the Inquisition. He was so eager, he was nearly trembling.

Like I was, when I first joined the Templars.

 _Calm yourself, Templar-Knight. You aren't a green recruit anymore. Learn to act your status. Your first charge will respond to our summon soon,_ Greagoir had said.

I remember standing a little taller, jutting my chin up. Just the same as how Barris is standing now. Maker willing, he will stand the same in the years to come.

Unlike me.

No. He will stand proud, I will make certain of it. The Inquisition will not be like the Order.

"Ser?"

"Rylen," I nod as he salutes. They eye my shoulder, black and purple bruises peeking out beneath the bandage.

"Ser, you must get your shoulder seen by the Mages." Barris starts.

"Give it up, Barris. Commander's one stubborn arse when it comes to taking magical healing." Rylen grunts, tossing a plate piled with breads on top of the documents scattered over my desk. Walking closer he snatches the bandage out of my hand, and expectantly waits for the other end still between my teeth.

"Knight-Captain?" Barris cocks his head, as I hand off the linen strip.

"Rylen, don't go telling- _ungh!"_

 _Maker,_ lights flash before my eyes and my shoulder is suddenly aflame with pain. I glare at Rylen, looking a tad too innocent holding the far-too-tight bandage.

"If ser doesn't like how I treat your wound, might be best to ask the Mages for a healing spell or two. Ain't that the truth, Commander?"

"Shove it, lieutenant. Do not cut off my circulation," I growl.

"Stubborn mule you are, ser." Rylen shrugs, tugging even tighter. Damned man, he's going to injure me further. Why did I ever let him get anywhere near me, knowing-

"Knight-Captain! You will truly injure the Commander like that! Ser, it really would be best if you were to get Solas to cast some magic on you." Barris steps closer, concern lining his face.

"It's fine, Barris. It's not something so serious that I must bother the Mages. Do not be concerned, I do seek help if my wounds are severe."

"But ser, you have a ruptured…"

"Enough." I jerk my head. Rylen pulls hard on the bandage and ties a knot before stepping away.

I drag a shirt over myself, knowing they're staring at my awkward movements with disapproval dripping from their faces.

Barris is capable and well-meaning, but Rylen's known me for longer. He knows I do not take magical healing, not if I can help it. Though he doesn't feel one bit guilty about grilling me to convince me otherwise.

"Now, report."

"Ser, last of the preparations have been made by your order. The Templars are ready to march to the Breach," Barris says.

"Sister Leliana's scouts reporting in as well, ser. The way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes is clear; the operation may proceed as planned," Rylen grunts.

 _Finally_

"Permission to proceed. The Breach will be sealed today. Dismissed."

"Ser!" They salute smartly and stride out of my tent. As they leave the break of dawn spills into my small cot and I close my eyes. Dull throbs persist in my left shoulder, heavy and unwelcome. But even that discomfort cannot chase away the tight fluttering of nerves in my stomach.

The Templars will march at midday today. Maker turn His gaze on us all.

* * *

Dozens of Templars. No, I think they number over a

hundred. I wouldn't accept any less. Only the best are fit to stand by my side and these are the absolute elites of the Order, or so Cullen assures me.

So, why isn't he escorting me? I ask and ask and all echo the same answer. Cullen Stanton Rutherford is not accompanying me. He is the best; I _know_ so. I've been hearing rumors of him since my time in the Circle of Ostwick – every Templar and Circle Mage has heard of the sole Templar survivor of the Circle of Ferelden. His combat prowess can't be questioned. Someone who's survived that many disasters has _got_ to be the best, and he even protected me from that abhorrent Envy. The way he said… what did he say exactly? 'I will not allow for you to be harmed,' all low and serious and in _that_ voice… with _those_ sincere eyes… by holy Andraste! I am melting low down _there_ , just by remembering his voice!

And he is not going to be by my side, in my hour of triumph. I don't understand, and I've demanded this be rectified, but as always my reasonable requests have fallen on deaf ears.

Cullen must be suffering too, as I am. I remember that crooked smile he showed me when we were properly introduced in the Chantry, over that thing that couldn't _possibly_ pass for food. He never smiles like that to anyone else from what I've seen, and the way his eyes went hazy with that devious grin… he must have been unable to help how his thoughts turned to us tumbling into bed. And if a man of low birth like him can persevere through this forced separation, so can I.

The biting wind is practically freezing my face. This Maker-forsaken wind, haunting me _every_ single time I leave my decrepit hut. The _horrors_ it has done to my skin over the past few weeks! What a terrible thing it is, that wind! Always bringing cold to burrow beneath my silk robes, drying my face and whipping my hair everywhere! It chaps my lips, and my once-perfect skin is rougher than… what's it called? Sand! By the Lady, what I wouldn't give to go back to the days before madness ruled this land. Where Mages were safe within the walls of the Circles, and Templars stood silent in guard.

Now those very same Templars march in my wake. Twisting to face the wind, I tug my heavy cloak so it billows out over my mare's hump with my red curls accentuating the scene. I must sacrifice my precious silky skin, but it achieves the effect I desire. The Templars' eyes lit up at the majestic history in making. I ride into the blazing sun – so irritatingly _bright_ , for Maker's sake why does the sun have to be so bright – a halo of gold glowing on me. My face must be stern and serene, holy like the Blessed Bride of the Maker. I must project the very image of the chosen Herald. I am beautiful beyond reason, and magnificent like none other. I will inspire these common folks and lead Her Order of Knights to victory. Maker, I was _so_ born for this!

Eyes follow my every gesture, gazes fixed on every flicker of my motion. Respect and faith shines, constant reminder and acknowledgement to my holiness. Those eyes that have roamed over me countless times without ever recognizing my existence before! As if I did not exist! Or worse, those eyes that mocked me, laughed and belittled my magic! Those Templars who always presumed superior air and looked to me with disdain and disinterest, ha! Merciful Andraste, just and fair, she has granted me my due! Years delayed, but it is time for my worth to be recognized! Now those sneering Templars serve my every whim.

"Lady Herald, please come this way." A Knight-Lieutenant bows to me, her eyes lowered. Good, they've learned not to gaze upon my face without permission.

"Kneel, Knight-Lieutenant."

She immediately drops to the ground, hands locked together in front. I slide down my sidesaddle onto her hands, and step down onto the snow-covered ground. Oh Andraste, is there no end to this torment? When will I finally be able to bid goodbye to this accursed snow? It provides for such threat of slipping and falling, unbefitting of the holy leader. Even worse, it wets my delicate shoes! Goodness, this pair was well worth over forty sovereigns! But the Herald must endure, show strength and unshaking resolve despite the immeasurable miseries she is asked to carry. It is my burden, and I will shoulder what I must.

"You may rise,"

"Yes, ma'am. This way, ma'am." She salutes and starts off, _uphill!_

Uphill! By the Lady, whose idea of a joke is this? Even that ignorant, disgusting, savage knife-ear's pranks must be preferable. Do they expect me to huff and puff up this treacherous slope to the Breach? I must be the embodiment of dignity! I refuse to hike up a side of a mountain like a common rabble!

"Cassandra, this won't do at all. Why am I not continuing on my mare?"

"The path forward is not fit for a horse, Herald."

"I insist-"

"No."

"Fine, what of a sella then?"

"No."

Merciful Lady! Grant me the strength not to order her executed here and now! This ignorant child of the Maker dares to question my authority at every opportunity… but forgive her sins, for she knows no better. With a heart as endless as the sky, embrace her and teach her Your ways.

"Cassandra, you may not realize this. But! Keeping up appearances is necessary. The Herald must always maintain the air of divine power. It is essential to keeping faithful's morale up. If I were to look as common as any other dirt rat, what's to stop them from wondering if they are merely following a delusional madwoman?"

"Tre-"

"No, Cassandra. As I've said a hundred times already, you must address me as the Herald, or Lady Trevelyan. Formalities are established for a reason. Reasons I've kindly listed out for you. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Sella will show my dominance over common people. It will inspire loyalty, awe, and confidence in their holy servitude! Do you see now? Do you understand the dire necessity for a sella?"

"No. I see you have legs. Use them."

That idiotic brute of a sell-sword! How dare she!

"Cassandra! Your attitude is frankly abhorrent and insulting. You blaspheme Andraste Herself with such condemnable actions towards me, Her Herald!"

"Tre-"

 _"What, did I say, about addressing me?!"_

My voice echoes back to me, distant but sure. Nearby Templars turn to watch us, further strengthening my divinity and cornering the dirt rat.

"…lady Trevelyan, I-"

"Kneel, Cassandra. Kneel and seek forgiveness."

"I refuse to-"

 _"Kneel,_ for your sins. Or do you intend to show these Templars how a banished Seeker turns against even Her Lady's Herald? Like the Oath you abandoned? Like the Seekers you've betrayed? Beg for my mercy, or declare your heart waylaid by blasphemous pride in the eyes of the Knights of the Order and our Lady Herald!"

"You're being childish. This achieves nothing. No."

She must kneel. She _must,_ for my sake.

"Unless you kneel, I will not close the Breach," I whisper.

"You will close the Breach. Even if I must force you-"

"Will you draw your sword on me, Her Herald, in the eyes of all these men? I will not budge otherwise. Decide, now. Stand and the sky will stay torn. Kneel, and the Breach will be closed."

"This is ridiculous."

"Is it? Because I won't move one step until you kneel. Will you kill me for it? How many will die, Cassandra? How much more blood do you need to spill for your own selfish pride? For the pride of a banished Seeker?"

 _…Yes!_

Ha, what a look on your face! If only I had a mirror to show you, disbeliever!

How cold and uncomfortable that dreadful frozen dirt and snow must be on your knees. It is a right fitting image for you, challenging my power!

Look how the Templars are stunned. How their mouths drop open in shock! A Seeker! Their better, is kneeling in snow. To a Mage!

To _me!_

You have not an inkling of what I've endured in my life. No inkling, how long I've waited for a chance like this. It's a Maker-given gift, this Mark, and how you've tried to undermine me every second since the Conclave.

I will never forgive you, Cassandra. Not for what you've tried to do to me. Not for what you've tried to take away from me. This power, this spiteful magic is for me. It is a reward and a gift. I won't let anyone take it away from me. No, never, not by the likes of you. Oh how easily I could end you right here, right now! The power, so tangible in my hands!

But you have your uses, and you will serve my purpose. Be an example, you despicable wretch. More of the ignorant rabble will flock to my banner after you play your part.

"Cassandra, the Right Hand of the passed Divine."

How you ever managed to snag that position will forever remain a mystery to me, thug.

"You have sinned. You've tarnished your honor, for you have broken the unbreakable oath of servitude of the Maker's will. The Seekers recognize this: they have exiled the shame of their order."

"You have questioned the unquestionable authority of the Herald of Andraste. You've insulted the voice of our Lady! Your sins are heavy and unyielding."

"But I am Her Herald, and our Lady is as forgiving as She is wise. With Her grace I forgive your misguided actions. Serve as my hand, and I will keep you close. I will instruct your ignorance, and forge you anew from the fire of my faith."

How far can I push her? Would she swear to serve me under the pressure? Would the watchful eyes of the Templars tip her over?

Hmm… likely not. The anger in her eyes… so damningly rebellious. How delightfully predictable.

"Follow in my path, and you will see the heavens answer to my call. The sky which condemns your sins will seal today by my plea! For I am the will of Andraste, and none will oppose Her Herald!"

She glares at me, rage blazing as plain as day. Ha, how long will you be able to look at me so?

I will seal the sky! I will close the Breach, prove I am the Herald of Andraste, chosen of the Maker's Bride and claim the title of Inquisitor for myself! See if any dare to oppose me then, or humiliate me so! By my Lady's will, I will end that Breach today and become a living legend.

And then, I will be the most powerful being on Thedas as She wills it.


End file.
